Terminator: Prey Drive
by Trif
Summary: Are you hungry for more Terminator fan fiction? Read here about what happens when survivors of Judgement Day meet machines designed to seek out humans hiding in the wild.
1. Chapter 1

Title — Terminator: Prey Drive

Description — Are you hungry for more Terminator fan fiction? Read here about what happens when survivors of Judgement Day meet machines designed to seek out humans hiding in the wild.

Terminator: Prey Drive

Part 1: Humans in hiding

By Dave Trifunov

Sean Palmer hated machines before Judgement Day, which is probably why he is still alive. He had no cellphone, no iPod, and he refused to use GPS. His modest double-wide trailer in the Canadian prairie contained a toaster oven not a microwave, a "low-definition" TV without satellite, and two banged up clock-radios. He travelled to work every day from behind the wheel of a black 1999 Toyota Tundra pickup, a truck that required no special engineering degrees to change the oil.

When the combines broke down or the threshers needed to be stored for winter, Palmer would get his hands dirty, but he did not consider these machines anything more than just big tools. He did not give them girlie names and he did not talk to them. He just did his job, tilling the soil in spring and harvesting crops in fall. He was a farmer, goddammit.

When the bombs fell on April 19, 2011, Palmer travelled north to avoid the fallout. He would walk until it became too painful, the toxic sky and acid rain tearing at his lungs and eating away at the thick layers of ragtag clothing. At six-foot-three and nearly three hundred pounds, his body was able to withstand the radiation better than most, and he was helped by the fact central Canada escaped total annihilation. But, being such a big man, he found it difficult to walk for very long. Soon after the war erupted, one of his first stops was near Cold Lake, Alberta, and the military bases there, thinking it would be wise to seek out help in the form of the military. That was his first mistake.

HK-Aerials maintained heavy surveillance around all military bases in the early days, targeting any and all resistance. It was pure fortune that he escaped almost unharmed from the area. He was just cresting a small hill when an HK approached the base from the north. Oddly enough, the thing he remembers most from that day was how he was freezing, lying there on the ground, the stubbled grasses scratching his unshaven face as gunfire pounded the base. Maybe that is because he would rather think about the cold and not focus on the few remaining soldiers running for their lives from burning barracks only to be mowed down from above.

He was frozen to the ground, breathing in wisps of soft, grey dirt and ash when the shelling stopped. He lifted his head after five minutes and started walking toward the base, the heat of burning fuel making it impossible to get too close. That is when the HK returned in all its rage and noise to pick off any stragglers. He sprinted into a nearby stand of trees, getting deep enough so that when the first shell exploded near him, he was thrown to the ground and covered by displaced soil, rocks and fallen limbs and trunks. That was enough to protect him from the strafing HK and its artillery. No puncture wounds, just blunt trauma.

At that point he was still becoming accustomed to the carnage, learning from other roving survivors of a nuclear war. Was it the Russians? Yes, but only because the Americans struck first. So we were invaded by Russia? No, they are machines. They are not Russian. Nobody knows where they came from, or whose side they are on. They are just killing humans. What about our government? There is no way of knowing for sure. There are no radios, no emergency broadcasts. Consider yourself lucky to be alive.

Usually the living would form small collectives, falling back on their humanity, believing there is strength in numbers. But the machines found them easier if they were in groups, and after Palmer had watched dozens killed, he realized he was safer alone. His only companion was a stray dog he named Lucy. A black and white husky-shepherd, the dog had saved him more than once, her keen sense of smell and hearing the head-start he needed to avoid the Terminator machines.

He found her scavenging along the roadside in one of the many small towns where he attempted to find refuge in the months after Judgement Day, but she was the only survivor. Nothing but skin and bones, she initially turned on him, growling and barking and lunging. But once he uncovered a bounty of beef jerky in the basement of some wreck of a home, Lucy decided maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

Now, many months later, he was starting to regain his strength, while Lucy thrived in her ancestral role. Palmer decided to return to his hometown of Good Soil, Saskatchewan. His family moved from there when he was a teen, but he still recognized it 20 years and one nuclear attack later. The sign on the highway that welcomed visitors to town somehow remained standing. Good Soil. Home of Ron Greschner. It was big enough to contain adequate canned goods and Twinkies to live for months, but not big enough to command constant chaos from the machines. The initial blasts were the most deadly anyway.

When the machines first attacked, many stood gathered in churches, town halls, gymnasiums or arenas. The machines anticipated that, so Good Soil's St. Barnabas Catholic church—like many others—was gutted, charred human remains visible in the aisles and the pews. The stench was still there if you weren't already well accustomed to it by now. Hopefully they were closer to God now, Palmer thought to himself. The hockey arena was also flattened, along with the gas station and strip mall.

But people in this part of the world rarely went hungry. There were still a couple of burger joints, a pizza parlour and various other pharmacies, bars and convenience stores, all with non-perishable items trapped inside for those willing to search for them. Many sporting goods stores kept him supplied with water purification tablets or filters, and he had scraped together enough ammunition and guns to feel somehow safer. There was even a compound bow and arrows he used to hunt the few deer not already poisoned or killed by the radiation.

Main Street was relatively unscathed. Skynet had bigger towns to level, although the Terminators—in some form or another—eventually found their way to almost every populated area of Canada, usually dropping powerful bombs from high above, or swooping down to capture survivors for what nobody dared imagine.

He and Lucy survived in a log house hidden among the trees by a lake just outside town. It was a classic cabin you'd see in movies: giant notched lodge poles serving as the walls and mortar keeping it together. It was cold in the winter, but wasn't attracting any attention from the Terminators, which passed overhead every month looking for groups of survivors to trap or kill – or at least he believed it was every 30 days or so; time didn't meant much anymore. As long as he didn't burn too much firewood, and he didn't fire any guns, he seemed to be left alone.

Palmer was prepared to live out his days alone in the cabin. He was never very fond of strangers, and he only ever had a few friends. He guessed most of them were dead by now. To help him deal with the boredom, he hauled a couple of pickups to the cabin, and was nearly finished cobbling together spare parts to get one running. Most car dealerships were targeted by the machines, but he managed to find enough working parts and a decent frame from the surrounding farms to build a travelling fortress.

He added a camping shell to the truck bed, using a diesel generator to power a welding torch that allowed him to reinforce the sidewalls with sheet metal from bombed out grain silos or Quonset huts; then he attached plates across the tire wells and stocked the thing with a bed role, weapons, food and water. It was his insurance policy.

It must have been the torch that attracted her. A woman about 30, maybe younger, Tabitha lived on the Black Lake Nation Indian reserve, and was attempting the long journey north back home. Lucy noticed her first, and if the dog hadn't of calmed down so quickly, Palmer would have likely shot the woman dead in her tracks.

"Nice dog," she said, as Lucy craned her neck and sniffed Tabitha's hand cautiously.

Palmer believed Tabitha was Native Canadian from her dark skin tone, dark eyes and black hair.

"She might have just saved your life," he said. "The only things I see moving around here are deer, coyotes, or those machines. I usually shoot at all of them. But she seems to trust you."

"Have you got anything to eat…" she asked him before proceeding to faint and nearly bash her head on a rock.

"Goddammit," he said. She was just a waif of a girl, maybe five-foot-three and ninety pounds. Her skin was clammy, ashen, and her clothes reeked of sweat and smoke. He carried her inside, laid her on the couch, brought her some water and tried to revive her.

"What the hell," he said with obvious frustration. "Here, drink this."

She sipped from the glass, but looked no better.

"Is this your house?" she asked him in a voice that quivered.

"I'm looking after it until the owner comes back," he said, trying to sound ironic. "You're starving aren't you? Where did you walk here from?"

"I was in Wyoming at a powwow with some friends when the war started," she said. "We escaped to a ranch in the country, about 50 of us, but those machines kept on coming. Soon it wasn't safe, and five of us started walking northeast, trying to get back home up north to Black Lake. We made it as far as Great Falls when a truck we found still working was blown up. I'm the only one who survived. We thought maybe Canada would be safer."

Realizing he hadn't spoken to another human being in months, Palmer pressed her for details of the outside world.

"What do you know about survivors anywhere?"

"We heard on the shortwave radio that machines are hunting humans and taking them to experiments. There are a few people here and there, and a resistance with guys from the army, but that's about all I know. Can I have something to eat?"

He stood up, walked into the kitchen and popped the top of a can of baked brown beans with maple syrup.

"They're old, but they won't kill you," he said.

It didn't take long for her to finish the entire thing. He offered her chocolate, and gave Lucy the bean bowl to clean out.

"We don't waste anything here," he said, as Lucy buried her snout in the bowl, the tips of her floppy ears bouncing on its edges. "Did you come through Regina?"

"The city is almost gone. Nothing is left anywhere. Everybody is dead. "


	2. Chapter 2

Title — Terminator: Prey Drive

Description — Can't wait until the next Terminator movie? Read this Terminator fan fiction about the struggle between the survivors of Judgement Day and machines with animal instincts.

Terminator: Prey Drive

Part 2: A fire rekindled

By Dave Trifunov

Three weeks had passed, and Palmer had seen very little evidence of the machines, which was a huge relief to him. His band of survivors now numbered three, and he wasn't interested in adding any more to that. He didn't like the thought of a girl doing something stupid to attract attention, but it had been a long time since he could talk to anyone, so he was putting up with her. It probably didn't hurt that she was finally healthy again, and he could see how beautiful she was. Fine features, and slightly tomboyish, her black hair fell down to the middle of her back. Her dark eyes seemed to hint at something more. Another mouth to feed would seriously cut into his supplies, but he was getting better with a bow and arrow, so hunting was always an option.

The dog he could justify. After all, dogs could easily live in the wild, so why would the Terminators pay any attention to a stray should an HK-Aerial notice it from high above during a search? But the real issue, he admitted to himself, was he didn't like the responsibility. He didn't want his own stupid mistake to cost the lives of things he cared about.

His "armored vehicle," as Tabitha called it, was complete. He parked it in the trees, and covered it with a camouflage tarp he discovered inside the sporting goods store in town. At least with another person around, he had twice the manpower to find and collect supplies. The walk into Good Soil was about 20 minutes, so it was tough to carry too much back to the camp. And every time he went back, it seemed there were fewer and fewer resources. There was occasional evidence of passing scavengers, or survivors, picking through the rubble, so he wanted to secure as much for them as possible. She tried to convince him the Wal-Mart in Meadow Lake would offer years of essentials, but he didn't want to risk driving an hour along the highway unless it was absolutely necessary.

Besides, he thought, there has to be an army or government formulating a plan, a response to get humanity back in control. Maybe they would just have to tough it out for a few more weeks. So, instead, he decided cleaning out Good Soil, store by store, would be safer. He wanted to go back for the industrial-sized tins of tomato sauce he spotted once at Milano's Pizzeria, and was hoping for cured salami or pepperoni, or even vacuum-packed dough or cheese. They were also pushing along a wheelbarrow in the hopes they could fill it, and maybe a shopping cart, with those freeze-dried meals made for camping, maybe an extra weapon for the girl, from the camping outfitter. The meals were compact, and lite, and would sustain them for weeks. They seemed to have enough food for a good three months, but canned fruit cocktail, baked beans and Spaghetti-O's couldn't sustain them forever.

And he wasn't willing to start any big fires. He knew smoke would signal the machines. He almost thought travelling even further north was the best idea, if they could survive the cold winters; supplies would be slimmer up there, too.

When they finally reached the first store, his heart sank. The pizzeria's freezers had been damaged worse than he imagined. While they looked untouched from the front, the concussion of bombs exploding around them had cracked the frames, and when he opened the lids, all he found was a moldy mess of unrecognizable green fuzz. There were fewer canned goods than he'd hoped, and almost nothing was vacuum sealed. They left with just a couple of cans of pineapple, tomato sauce, and olives.

The P&Q gas station and convenience store was only slightly better. They managed to uncover a box of 24 beef jerky packages and a pallet of dry dog food in the store room; at least it wasn't a total loss for Lucy. There was no junk food—potato chips, candy bars and soda—because it was the first thing roaming survivors who might have stumbled into town discovered, but often they didn't root around into the back rooms.

The shopping cart they found at the convenience store rattled along the pavement, the only sound for miles, as they made a now even more important trip to Wilderness Outfitters. It was off the highway, and unless you were local, you probably wouldn't even know it was there. Inside, they collected the last few propane tanks, dried soups and meals, and a weapon for the girl. Palmer was busy searching through the store room when Lucy's growl made him stop dead. She rarely made any noise at all, let alone anything remotely aggressive.

"Wait here," he told Tabitha.

He grabbed his rifle and went outside to find the dog. He could see only her backend as she stood at the corner of the building staring at something out of his view, her tail straight up at attention. He went around the other side of the building, peered around the corner and nearly screamed. It was what appeared to be a motorcycle, cruising slowly toward the front of the store, but there was no driver. Its sleek silver and black frame was nothing more than weapons and exhaust pipes.

The dog didn't move, and the machine didn't seem to even notice it. It was nearly silent, too, and Palmer believed it was conducting surveillance. He crept away from his corner, and went through the store's back entrance. He came up quietly behind Tabitha, placed a hand around her mouth, and pulled her down to the floor, away from any windows. Her muffled scream, he thought, was going to be the end of them. When Lucy trotted into the room, he was sure the machine would follow.

He made the "shhhh" sound to both of them, with a finger over his lips. They all waited there on the floor for what seemed like an hour, but was more likely 15 minutes. Finally, Palmer stood and carefully checked for any evidence of the machine, and there it was, casing the building. He wasn't sure it would ever leave, so he sat back down again.

Shrugging his shoulders, as if to ask now what, he looked at Tabitha. She stood slowly, saw the machine cross in front of the front window, grabbed her gun and released the safety.

Palmer was stunned. She leaned into his ear and said, barely loud enough to hear, "It won't go anywhere. It knows something is inside. We have to kill it."

She crawled along the floor to their shopping cart, cautiously removing a propane tank and handed it to him.

"When it goes by us again, go outside, open the valve and leave the tank in the road. Come back inside, take the dog, and hide someplace safe."

She spoke with such icy determination that he followed her orders. He'd never tried to fight back before, and obviously she survived months on the road somehow.

He did as he was told. Tabitha went out the front. As the machine passed her, she followed behind it, just out of sight. When it came upon the hissing propane tank it stopped. She leaned against the wall, aimed and fired.

The machine appeared to know what was coming, and accelerated away, but it wasn't faster than the bullet. Her round pierced the metal, the sparks ignited the gas, and a fireball sprang from the tank's belly.

The machine spun sideways onto the pavement. She ran up behind it, filling the carcass with another three bullets. Its lights appeared to dim, as she stood over it with her gun at the ready. Palmer came running from the store, the tank flaming in the road.

"Holy shit."

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" Palmer asked Tabitha, who was still fixated on the smoking motorcycle.

"I grew up hunting," she said.

"What the hell is that thing?"

"Some of the guys called them Mototerminators," she said. "If you're smart enough, you can actually hotwire them, then ride them, but we have to go. All these things are linked into some communication system. It's probably already sent reinforcements."

They left behind all of the supplies and started running. The 15 minutes it took them to return to camp was painful. Palmer's lungs were burning, and Tabitha was just hours removed from starvation. They collapsed inside the cabin, with their gasps for air echoing off the walls. Only the dog appeared able to still run that distance, and Lucy kept her end of the bargain by standing on the back of the old couch in the living room and watching out the window.

"It's like she knows what's going on," Tabitha said.

They eventually regained their strength and retreated to the bedroom, where they could see the sky back toward town through the window. They both fully expected to spy an HK-Aerial or, at the very least, a drone appear on the horizon. Nothing materialized after 15 minutes, and they considered themselves in the clear. It was then Palmer realized how fragile his life had become. He locked his eyes on Tabitha, leaned over to kiss her, and they collapsed on the bed, stealing an hour doing something they had until very recently considered impossible. It was while they made love that Palmer didn't once think about machines, or Mototerminators, or a world destroyed in flame and ash.


	3. Chapter 3

Title — Terminator: Prey Drive

Description — If you want Terminator FanFic, click here to read about what happens when survivors hiding in the northern wilderness are hunted by a new breed of machine.

Terminator: Prey Drive

Part 3: Inside the belly of the beast

By Dave Trifunov

Inside Skynet, a wireless transmission detailed possible human contact in sector NACA-5.22, what was once called northern Saskatchewan. A routine aerial drone had recorded what was believed to be human activity, and it sent a Mototerminator to investigate.

The machine sent images back to the drone of an animal, but also of a small gas tank before a fiery explosion ended communication. It wasn't uncommon for drones and machines to be destroyed in the field. Leaking gas lines, collapsing buildings, and sudden storms all played havoc with the machines used to hunt, kill and trap human survivors.

Once Skynet became self-aware, its mission had been to ensure its survival, and humans were the primary threat to that plan. To eliminate its No. 1 adversary, Skynet began designing and producing Terminators of all variation, many that would adapt to the environments where humans were hiding. Skynet anticipated a one percent survival rate one year after Judgement Day, or about 60 million people worldwide. In North America, that equated to about five million people from Panama to Alaska.

As soon as Judgement Day arrived, the machines began hacking into factory mainframes and networks, reprogramming the primitive robots that humans had developed to build better machines, so those machines could build bigger factories which would then, in turn, produce more deadly weapons and effective tools. Skynet didn't want human survivors to multiple.

It concluded it would require a vast network of surveillance to root out survivors that would invariably retreat below ground, into caves, underwater, or high into the mountains where it would be easy to watch for oncoming attacks. To achieve that goal, Skynet was experimenting with cybernetic organisms, or cyborgs, by placing living tissue over strong metal-alloy frames. But that wasn't the only strategy.

Human skin was problematic. The human face had too many details, and it was too expressive and open. Manufacturing eyes and giving the electronic assassins a voice that didn't sound ridiculous was nearly impossible for a machine.

Four-legged animals, however, were much easier. Humans were apprehensive of animals, too, especially those that could easily kill them. That's why Skynet decided on the T-C, _Terminator Canis_, and T-U, or _Terminator Ursus_. You didn't have to perfect the accent of a wolf howl or teach a bear slang. Humans kept their distance from these animals, meaning they didn't see the flaws Skynet would invariably include in the hair and eyes. Furthermore, the anatomy of a wolf was built to easily traverse forests, and bears were powerful enough to move boulders or trees that might act as barriers to human prey.

Granted, there were fewer animals after Judgement Day, but life on earth continued regardless, and Skynet needed a machine to gain access to wilderness enclosures, relay information should they find it, and kill if they had to.

So that's why, from a fledgling factory in San Francisco, did the first Terminator Wolf Pack appear. Had there been any humans around to witness it, they would've seen a dozen gray wolves, staring ahead and stiff, appear from the mist of the factory floor on conveyor belts transporting them to HK-Aerials. In packs of three, they would be dropped where Skynet had reason to believe humans were thriving in the wilderness: Alaska, northern Michigan, Washington State, and northern Alberta. From there they could migrate to where they were needed. No sleep and no food were required, and they moved quickly and effectively over broken highways, flooded riverbanks and eroding prairie.

That's why when the Mototerminator in Good Soil went dead, and the last reports were of a dog and possible humans inside a building, did Wolf Pack 2 in Alberta receive its orders. They were carried 10 miles outside the town by an HK-Aerial, emerged from the belly of the great flying beast, and began a slow but determined run to the location of the last recorded contact.


	4. Chapter 4

When Palmer finally snapped out of his slumber an hour later, he was immediately uncomfortable. He expected that, after spending an hour with a beautiful woman for the first time in years, he would have been rejuvenated. Instead, he couldn't help replaying their encounter with the Mototerminator earlier that day, so he was never really asleep.

Tabitha was still unconscious, so he slipped out of bed and went outside to answer nature's call. The dog followed, evidently intent on the same task. It was dusk, and he could smell ozone—and the coming rain—in the air. He stepped around the back of the house to relieve himself and had nearly finished when he glanced up with the feeling that something was watching him.

Palmer could only catch a shadow; the faintest hint of movement. A deer? If it was, he needed to get his bow; they would need the extra nutrition after losing much of their bounty that day, and with another mouth to feed. But he couldn't figure out why Lucy wasn't reacting. Normally, even just chipmunks or squirrels would send her into a frenzy, literally barking up a tree at the rodents in the branches above her.

He closed his trousers, and called the mutt over to him. "Lucy! … What's that?" The magic words immediately grabbed her attention, and she tore off into the brush. It's not the best hunting technique, but Palmer didn't consider this a hunt. He was worried it was a person or, worse, machine stalking their camp.

If it was living, the dog would almost certainly find the scent. Palmer followed as best he could, slowly tracking her path into the treed exterior of his cabin. He walked a few minutes, but when neither hide nor hair of dog or intruder could be found, he stopped. If it was a person, there'd be fierce barking by now. Nobody was as fast as Lucy. If it was a machine, he'd hear motors and exhaust—probably the last thing he would hear, too.

The dead silence was frustrating, but better than gunfire headed his way. So he called his dog, and returned home to sit on the porch. She didn't immediately follow his command; she so rarely did when he let her loose like that. Tabitha awoke and joined him on the steps. Palmer had always prepared himself to lose the dog, convincing himself she was just an animal; a tool to ensure his survival, but the butterflies in his stomach belied that thought.

"What was it?" Tabitha asked him through a voice still half-asleep.

"I'm not sure," he said, staring straight ahead as the wind began to move the trees. "Probably nothing, but she seems to have found something to chase."

The first few drops of rain splattered on Tabitha's bare knees, so they started to stand when rustling and bounding stopped them. They turned to face the noise, wind suddenly gusting into their faces, blowing Tabitha's hair straight back behind her. She instinctively grabbed Palmer's hand as they stood transfixed by the looming storm clouds that suddenly surrounded them.

Rrruufff. Lucy appeared almost instantaneously, catching them by surprise. The dog ran up to Tabitha and began nosing her hand as if they'd been separated for years. "Godddammit, dog," was Palmer's only reaction. They returned into the cabin as the rain began to pelt the ground.

The downpour didn't stop for hours. Cans of cold "peaches and cream" corn, Klik luncheon meat, and nearly stale crackers made the dreary evening seem nearly unlivable. Two candles burned, one on the table, the other on the counter. It was times such as these they both felt the sting of loneliness all the more. Tabitha thought of her sisters, twins two years younger. Palmer had two younger brothers. Neither of them expected to ever see their families again, let alone live in peace.

Palmer watched Tabitha stand to clear their plates, expecting the clang of dishes in the basin to interrupt the patter of rain on the rooftop. "HAAEEEE!" Instead he was jolted by her scream.

"What the hell?" he said, his heart pounding as he stood to face her.

"Outside," she said, "near the treeline."

There, illuminated by a sudden flash of lightning, were three wolves.

"Whoa!" he said.

Palmer loved wild animals, but he'd never seen anything so impressive. The long-legged canines cut intimidating figures even in the inky black rain. They crisscrossed like a synchronized aerobatics team, circling the cabin, their eyes never leaving the building. Palmer and Tabitha picked opposite directions and followed them from window to window, nearly bumping into each other and tripping over furniture numerous times as they strained to keep tabs on the beasts in the darkness.

"What should we do?" Tabitha asked. "I've never seen wolves act like that. They must be starving."

"Something doesn't add up," Palmer said. "Why are they walking in nearly perfect circles? They don't waiver, and their heads don't seem to move up or down, either. I don't get it."

Lucy stretched up to a window beside them. "Rrrr…"

"RO-RO-RO-RO-RO-RO-RO!"

Nothing. The rain was slowing, and the dog could always hold her own, but the bellowing didn't stir the animal intruders outside.

"I think we should just wait them out," Tabitha said. "They can't get inside."

"I'm not so sure," he said, moving to the bedroom to get his bow and an arrow.

Wolves so rarely engaged humans, Palmer thought, and there's no way they'd look that big if they were starving. Their coats were nearly identical and nearly untouched in the rain. He returned to the living room, raised the window, and waited for a wolf to pass.

"You're going to shoot it?" Tabitha said. She couldn't understand why he'd waste his time.

He didn't respond. He was waiting for one of them to stop when he realized a pattern had emerged. Two of the three circled to his left, a lone wolf passing between them to the right. Then the lone wolf would skip to the outside, switching places. It was just like the three-man weave he remembered from high school basketball practice, or the three jumping fleas they'd perform in gym class.

"Since when do wild animals …" he said as he steadied his aim.

THHHHOOK! His first arrow landed squarely in a wolf's flank, making an oddly metallic sound, generating only the slightest flinch—and no blood. The wolf stuttered slightly, but continued its surveillance, the arrow embedded near the top of a back leg.

"… sound like machines?"

Tabitha couldn't believe her eyes or her ears. But all the proof she needed came a few seconds later, when another flash of lightning lit up the sky. What appeared to be the lead wolf was standing straight ahead of them, and when the light hit the animal's eyes, an eerie red glow reflected back at them.

"What the hell?" she asked nobody in particular and not expecting an answer.

The rain returned, harder this time. They didn't speak for a minute. Watching their unwanted visitors, they realized that, at best, they'd have to somehow disable these things. At worst, they knew more machines were coming.

"Keep an eye on them, and yell if they move," Palmer said as he backed into the bedroom for his guns.

He loaded a pump-action shotgun, and grabbed her hunting rifle. He stuffed three flares into the pockets of his cargo pants and loaded a fourth into the pistol. Tabitha turned to face him as Palmer crossed the living area back toward her. She didn't have time to react when Lucy suddenly went ballistic, and the wolves simultaneously crashed through three different windows.

The flying glass forced Tabitha back to the floor. Palmer was stunned and confused. He dropped the two long guns, having just an instant to regain his bearings. Lucy froze at the sight of the awesome creatures. The wolves divided the room, and separated Palmer and the dog from Tabitha. He reacted, raised the flare gun and fired at the middle beast.

FFFSSSTTT! It impacted with great force and ignited the wolf's fur, sending a shower of sparks everywhere.

"GET OUTSIDE!" Palmer yelled as he bent to retrieve the shotgun. Tabitha's closes exit was the broken window. She grabbed the ledge and catapulted herself to the ground below, shards of broken glass embedded in her palms.

He wasn't as lucky. The wolf to his left charged, knocking Palmer sideways. Lucy, dwarfed by comparison, skittered away. The two other wolves closed him down, one with fur beginning to burn away to reveal a shiny steel skeleton.

They were growling and grinning convincingly, but as Palmer could now see, they looked more animatronic than animal. Then there was the fact the wolf he hit with the flare seemed absolutely unfazed by the growing fire on its back. Funny, he thought, what strange ideas go through your head when you're about to die.

Palmer, prone in the middle of the living room, seemed destined to his fate, with the shotgun just out of reach, three wolves maneuvering around the furniture to trap him, and the cabin filling with smoke. But Lucy wasn't about to let her master give up just yet. She latched onto the nearest wolf's shoulder, twisting and shaking her head with as much strength as she could muster. The great beast turned and shrugged her off, sending the once powerful husky sliding across the floor. "YAAEEEP!"

But it was just the break Palmer needed. He rolled and grabbed his shotgun, raised it up and blasted the alpha straight in the face. At close range, it stunned the mechanical hunter. "RAARR!" He gathered himself to one knee behind the couch, turned and fired two more blasts. KE-POW. KE-POW. One blast landed in the second wolf's front leg, the other into the burning wolf's neck.

Tabitha reappeared at the door. Lucy regained her legs, and stormed outside. "COME ON!" Palmer ran to the doorway. He turned again only to see the wolves regrouping. KE-POW. KE-POW. KE-POW. He kept them at bay long enough to realize what he needed to do to survive. He stepped backwards outside, slammed the door shut, and reached into a pocket. The wolves snarled and paced inside. "Get to the truck, now."

The three of them sprinted across the muck. Tabitha reached the truck first, opened the passenger door, jumping in after Lucy. Palmer pulled off the camouflage tarp, then leaned down and grabbed a jerry can of diesel nearby. He got in the truck, started the engine and slammed the door in time to see one wolf smash its way back out a window. It landed with such grace, he couldn't help think the animal was real, not an assassin sent to destroy him. As it bounded toward them, he slammed down the accelerator and directed the pickup straight at the wolf. The wheels spun in the mud, fishtailing sideways and catching the wolf as it attempted to dodge the vehicle. "CRRAAKKK!" The truck's side panel crumpled as the wolf went spinning backwards. Palmer leaped from the cab, grabbed the small gas can, and hurled it through an open window at the burning wolf circling inside, disoriented from the smoke and gunshot damage. "WHHHOOOSSSHH!"

The wood furniture and polyester curtains ignited quickly as the two mechanical terminators foundered inside. Soon the orange-yellow glow grew to encompass the entire inside of the cabin. "SEAN!" Tabitha yelled at him.

The first wolf was back on its feet. He jumped back in the cab, grabbed the shotgun from the seat, and fired another blast. He couldn't tell if he connected. Instead he floored the gas pedal and roared away from the growing scene of destruction toward the highway.

All their supplies, their clothing, and their food vanished in the flames. Worse still, they were convinced hunters would be dispatched to the area, if a crazed stainless steel wolf pack wasn't still on their tails. They needed another safe haven, and Palmer had no idea where he could find one now.

So he just started driving, hoping the highways north would be clearer than those headed south. With a few essentials in the camping shell, they'd probably survive OK, but for how long before they encountered the next mechanized killing machine? What next, robots that look like human beings? It was a thought too absurd to think about, but then again, he'd just survived a close encounter with steel teeth and robotic jaws.

Before the roof collapsed at the cabin, the two damaged wolves reemerged from the wreckage. Most of their fur was peeling off, but the strong undercarriage was more than capable of travelling to the rendezvous point for pickup by the HK-Aerial. The three terminators padded at a slow, determined gait. They trotted back into the belly of the flying machine, and began transmitting data of the encounter and last known direction of the humans before being shut down for recycling.

Skynet studied the attack and declared it a success. Emotion and reason failed the humans and allowed the wolves within mere inches of their prey. The computer diagnosed the digital video and audio recordings of Palmer's reaction, analyzing facial expressions at the point when he became aware the animals were machines. It rewrote programming and began designing eyes that didn't react to bright light, and adding a variable color pattern to the animal fur.

Within minutes, the factories that designed these close-combat Terminators adapted the new intelligence. Skynet determined emotion could be manipulated, even by machines.


End file.
